Odd Man Out
by Xeen Cyr
Summary: The morning after… post AbilitY - for fun only... Hints of Bolivia


**Odd Man Out**

_No copyright in__FRiNGEment intended.  
Note: No specific spoilers but post AbilitY. The morning after… Hints of Bolivia. _

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The door bell rings.

Olivia is home, working on her laptop, files and forensic reports spread on the coffee table next to her half empty glass of Merlot, a bowl of cereals she has barely nibbled on and an iron cast red Japanese teapot with a bamboo pattern. She frowns, takes a sip of her tepid tea and sits up on the couch.

Did she really hear the bell or did she make it up? She pushes back her glasses on her head, checks her watch, resisting a yawn. Six twenty-nine.

She stands, her back is sore from not enough sleep and too much work. She stretches her arms, arches but the pain strikes, eliciting a soft moan from her. She gets to the window but it's not the right angle, she should know she can't see the porch from here.

She's been up till the wee hours. Something about Jones she can't place. A detail that she knows she noticed before, during another case she worked on with John and which keeps eluding and bothering her. She knows she can't go back in the tank and get John's help. She knows that she would eventually, but only as a last resort, and if Walter lets her, which is unlikely if Peter has his say.

She shuffles to the hall, her eyes locked on her white wool socks, thinking of Walter's grey wool socks and his own shuffle, puts her hair in a bun and sticks her pencil into it. She opens the door.

"You made it Olivia! I'm so glad!"

Her eyes go wide. He would not be more pleased if he had met Santa Claus or the Yeti. "Walter? What are you doing here?"

Her voice is sharper than she intends. Not registering the biting cold, she steps outside to make sure he's alone while he barges inside carrying two large brown paper bags.

"How did you get over here?" she asks again, inspecting the street.

"We're having a picnic!" announces Walter. "I always dreamt of having a picnic in Boston, much, much better than a tea party. We weren't allowed picnics in St Claire's. Peter said that I may now."

Olivia turns around in the doorway and stares at him. "A picnic really? But it's barely seven… and it's a Thursday."

"Peter told me that you would say that," Walter chuckles, "not to worry, we'll have plenty of time to get you to the lab in due course."

"I was not planning to go to the lab this morning," she says dryly when she's pushed aside. Peter jostles his way inside and slams the door behind him.

"Walter, are you out of your mind? She's gonna catch her death if you keep her outside. Sorry about that, it took me like forever to find a parking spot. Nice underwear Dunham, I have to confess I never pictured you into a He-Man fan," Peter says, rushing to the kitchen. "Don't mind us. Come on Walter, let's get settled. Keep on doing whatever you were doing Liv, we'll be only a moment."

Olivia stares at her reflexion in the mirror beside the door. A discoloured tank top and teen cotton panties. So much for displaying an image of professionalism and poised authority. She takes off her glasses and heads to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, she's back to her normal self, usual pant suit and guarded attitude.

"Olivia you're late again," are Walter's first words when she enters the kitchen.

The Bishops have turned her place into something which looks dangerously like a real home.

"I'm only hoping that you washed your hands. Pristine hygiene is tantamount to healthy living. Peter is making blackberry pancakes, my favourite. Would you sit down now my dear, you're making everybody nervous."

"Actually Walter, I'm making pancakes and YOU can have whichever preserve you favour," says Peter with his back on them. "It's my last batch and I'll be right with you. Olivia, how would you like your eggs this morning?" he finally asks, with a quick glance in her direction.

"I have to emphasize that cooking eggs increases the risk of atherosclerosis due to oxidization of the egg yolk," says Walter matter-of-factly. "I would recommend a scramble egg white omelette with cheddar and bresaola at room temperature. And lightly toasted baguette, to avoid elevated levels of benzopyrene."

"It sounds lovely," she mutters.

"Walter, you certainly have a way with women. Please sit Olivia. Coffee?"

"Yes, please. White. What is it? A wistful celebration of a holiday only known to the Bishops?"

She takes a sip at her cup, winces at the bitter taste, adds some sugar and waits for an answer. Walter bends his head and grabs his cup with both hands, probably surprised by the stern tone of her voice and the bite in her words, but stays silent. He glances alternatively at her and his son, acknowledging he'd better go unnoticed in this peculiar situation.

"Yes it is. The celebration of a new day," Peter says evenly.

"You remember that Jones's gone right? I called you yesterday to inform you he escaped."

"Yes, I recall. And there's not much we can do about it right now, so won't you enjoy the moment while it lasts?"

"Are you intoxicated Peter?" she smirks.

"Olivia, you refused to take me up on my offer for a drink last night. Surely you're not going to blame me now for having a good time without you?"

"Wouldn't you like it," she mutters.

"Play along, please, take all the fun you can get before the shit hits the fan," Peter responds dryly, dropping on his chair across hers.

Walter opens his mouth then decides against speaking and returns to poking at his bread with a teaspoon.

"Omelette anyone? Here you go Walter."

Walter plays with his omelette for a good two minutes. The other two simply stare at the food and drink their coffee without a word. Walter takes a deep breath, recoils and finally, "I think we should go son, we… we should leave Olivia alone. She obviously has a lot on her plate. Maybe we could organize picnic at the lab for Asteroid and Gene?"

Peter looks daggers at him. "How convenient! Sorry Walter, I have no right to…" he pats him on the hand. "Olivia, can we have a word?"

"Absolutely!" she jumped from her chair and strides to the living room with Peter in her wake.

Walter bends his head forward and stoops over his plate. He hates it when people yell at each other like that but he could have told Olivia that Peter was about to throw a fit. He has learnt to read his son body language pretty well now. He knows when his anger is building up and when he's going to let it consume him. He's only surprised that this anger is aimed at Olivia. He knows that Peter is fond of her. It doesn't make any sense that he would be mad like that even if she's being unfair to him.

The shouting and calling names continues and Walter starts humming sounds to himself with his hands on his ears. He peeps around but it has been some time now that his alter ego hasn't showed up unexpectedly. Pressing his lips together, he hums madly until he's out of breath. Flashing his eyes open, he puts his hands on the table and catches his breath ready to use the same subterfuge again but the apartment is silent.

Did they kill each other?

A crease forms on his forehead and he mulls over the possibility of going to the living room to find out. He will count down to zero starting from one thousand. In the event they really hurt each other, he has no doubt he can revive them should it be necessary.

"One thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine, nine hundred and ninety eight, nine hundred and ninety seven, nine hundred and ninety six," he says.

Voices. Relief. They're alive. They are coming back. He can hear Olivia laughing at his son natural flirting banter. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes sparkling. Peter helps her with her chair, his hand on the small of her back, his lips brushing her hair.

Walter grins madly and floods his pancakes with maple syrup.

"Maple syrup is my favourite helping with pancakes. Would you like some Olivia?" he asks with a triumphant look on his face.

He knew it. Olivia likes Peter and Peter likes Olivia. Peter would not get into all this trouble only to throw HIM a picnic.

He can't wait to tell Gene.


End file.
